BBC Sherlock Imagines (Book 3)

Moriarty: Chromesthesia

Request for thickeyebrows

Warning: Talk of suicide

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When music plays, it's in shades of blue. Pop is like the arctic: bright and overwhelming. Rock is stone: a bit muted and dark, but noticeable all the same. And classical is lapis - undiscovered and full of chords in color. Upon walking through the streets of London and listening to some of David Reichelt's scores, the lapis color was bumping wildly in your eyes to the tune of Horus. As the music swelled, so did the saturation. Your eyes were rocking with hues as you hurried to a cafe, intent on getting your fill of coffee.

Occasionally, another color will poke through in your vision. When you smell fresh bread, a soft yellow creases at the edges of your peripheral. Upon hearing a baby cry, a soft pink. Someone calling your name, a lilac. And whenever you are kissed—no matter how rarely—an exquisite turquoise. But today, a new color emerged through the shade of lapis in your eyes.

Whilst dodging dodgers in the street, you were pushed against the wall in a flurry of the speeding mob. It seemed everyone was heading south and you were going north, and the crowd forced you to the side as you waited for them to pass on their phones and or with eyes set on the horizon. One person, though, was pushing against the tide of the crowd, heading north like you. His body was thin, and people moved around him so as to not touch him despite the inconsiderate way he walked in the middle of the pavement. If you were in that crowd, you would avoid him, too. The scarlet color he gave off was blazing, grasping him in an aura of reds and oranges firing simultaneously.

He must have felt you staring, for he glanced over your way, stopping right in the sea of people. They continued passing around him, as if he were a ghost. Had he not been wearing sunglasses, your clothes may have melted right off of you from that look. You could not see his eyes, but you were sure they were piercing. His lips were formed in a short frown, intensified by his sharp jawline and poking out chin.

He began stepping closer to you, and you backed up as far as you could, resulting in you bumping your head against a brick storefront wall. 

"Careful," he whispered, cocking his head and letting his pink lips arrange into a smile. He reached a hand over your shoulder and touched the spot on your head that had been bumped. When he touched it, your breath hitched and the scarlet that had surrounded his body now drenched your vision. All the blue of the music was gone. 

He plucked one of the headphones from your ear and put it in his own. "Film scores?" His voice was louder and quite high in the octave. It sounded like yogurt in the ears, smooth and creamy with a nip of tartness. He lifted a hand to his glasses and removed them. Through the scarlet invading your vision, you locked onto two dark brown eyes. "I'm going to die tomorrow. Would you like to go on a date with me before I do?" He was smiling now, wrinkles meeting the corners of his eyes. 

"What?" you asked, finally getting enough air to speak—his proximity crushed your lungs. You tried to work through what was happening, how you got here. You were staring, then he stared back, then he pinned you against this wall and put your earbud in his own ear. And now he just asked you on a date because he will die?

He scoffs in response. "Dying. Every heard of it? Quite the joyride."

"Do you have cancer?" you asked, grasping at strings to talk. 

He laughed at you like you were some old friend, shaking his head and patting your arm. "No, silly. I'm going to shoot myself."  

"Wha-why?" you asked, body beginning to shake. The suicide prevention hotline flashed through your mind, and you wished you had taken down the number. You needed to get this man some help.